


Taking a Bullet - II

by Danny (DannyC)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Shooting, does he die, does he not die, the world may never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:45:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7931680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DannyC/pseuds/Danny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jason!” </p>
<p>He hears it, hears that name, but he can’t quite focus on who called it or why. He’s busy, preoccupied with bleeding, with the world tilting and sliding around him as he drops to his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking a Bullet - II

**Author's Note:**

> This is another short based on a prompt in which Jason takes a bullet for someone else. It was supposed to have a happy ending but I still suck at those. You can take the ending as you like.

“Jason!” 

He hears it, hears that name, but he can’t quite focus on who called it or why. He’s busy, preoccupied with bleeding, with the world tilting and sliding around him as he drops to his knees. Hood glances down, a slight frown on his lips as he sees the blood gathering slowly below him; one drop, then three, then several more, and more and more and more. 

“No names in the field,” he mumbles, but even that is lost to his conscious mind, no note taken as words tumble slowly from his mouth, falling forth like heavy rocks. He remains there, perched on his knees for what feels like hours before he’s shifting again, falling. He isn’t as comfortable with the feeling of falling as Dick is, but he’s fallen enough times to have gotten used to it. A grunt escapes him, maybe a groan– he’s pretty sure there’s a fire inside his gut, burning him out, eating him alive. Or maybe the rounds buried deeply within him are the cause of the pain. Whatever.

It feels like he’s been lying there for hours, bleeding and hurting, shaking hands pressing to his ruined stomach. Christ, there’s a lot of blood, a lot of holes. He isn’t sure where to put his hands. Fucking automatic assault rifles, fuck those guys. Arms slip around him then, help ease him upwards. Hood glances up from his stomach, finds his gaze locking on Dick’s. Nightwing’s. He can’t see his eyes, but Jason’s fairly sure they’re terrified. Dick must have been the one calling his name.

A hiss escapes him as Dick holds him up some, keeping him cradled in his arms, Jason lying out with his back partially against Dick’s chest. He really doesn’t want to lay here like this. His mind is muddled, going into shock, and all Jason can think is that Dick called him Jason and now they’re sticking around when they should be leaving– Batman’s eye is probably twitching somewhere.

It takes him a moment to realize that Dick is still speaking to him. Hood focuses on his eyes, then on his lips, attempting to make the words out, put them together in a way that makes sense. “I’m okay,” he claims, his words accentuated by gasping pants for breath, blood pumping from his ruined abdomen even now. “I’m okay,” he repeats. He is, isn’t he? He has to be. Please, he has to be.

His helmet is removed then, and Jason tries to tell himself he can breathe more easily now, that the pain isn’t so persistent, and that the pool of blood around him isn’t growing as quickly. He tries to tell himself that things are alright, that he really is okay, and that it isn’t as bad as Dick seems to think. He swallows, takes in a shaky breath as he fights to keep pressure on his wounds, Dick’s hands pressing on his stomach now as well [when had he been laid back down?], and fuck if that doesn’t feel awful. 

It hits him rather suddenly. I’m going to die. That thought is worsened with the quick addition of, Again. No man should have to die twice, and here he is, bleeding out and hurting, struggling to breathe, like before. 

The realization that it’s happening again, not the same way but still happening, speeds up his pulse. He can hear Dick telling him to calm down, that he’ll be okay, but Jason can’t do that. He can’t do that, not when he’s dying again. That cold nothingness will come back, swallow him whole, and he won’t escape it a second time. It’s partially a relief, knowing that he won’t need to claw his way up from the depths of his own grave, that he won’t lose himself, his mind. But god, which is worse, not knowing or not being? Death means nothing, and Jason is terrified of the nothing that waits for him.

There are other sounds, people maybe. Jason doesn’t know if they’ve come to kill them, watch them, or help them. He doesn’t bother looking, just keeps pressing on his stomach as he tries to quell his panic. Image, it’s all about image. Dick is still calling him Jay, Jason, Little Wing. Names he shouldn’t be using, but Jason doesn’t have the energy to correct him– that’s Batman’s job anyway, not his. 

“I can’t,” he finally gasps, “I can’t. Please.” Whether Dick understands or not is lost to him; Dick merely looks down at him for a moment, but without being able to see his eyes, Jason can’t tell if there’s understanding or confusion in them. He tries to think, tries to get the words up to the front of his mind, push them up his throat and past bloodstained lips. “H-Harper has a list,” he breathes out, keeping his voice low so only Dick will hear, “He has a list.” 

It’s the best he can offer, telling Dick where Jason’s last demands are kept. They’re simple enough to follow, and are serious. He has put thought into dying a second time, hopes he’s covered all of the bases, just in case. A flashlight, in case he wakes in the dark. A knife, to make cutting through the lid easier [fingernails only last for so long, and that belt buckle had cut his hand up]. A bottle of water, because you try coming back to life and not being parched. He can’t remember his other requests. A phone maybe? He had spent hours on the list, had made it over several long days, and can’t quite recall it all now. The funeral itself would be easy; they already had a place picked out for him and everything.

When did they start moving? He can feel it, realizes his eyes aren’t open…open..come on, open. There. He glances up lazily, but it’s not something he understands. A roof? Are they in a car? I’m gonna die in a fucking taxi, Jason thinks mildly, but it’s lost soon as well. His abdomen feels tight, there’s something wrapped around him, binding him and holding him together. Oh, right. The people. They had helped carry him while he told Dick about his list.

Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck. “I don’t want–” he tries, but a bump makes him lose his breath, eyes going wide beneath his domino mask for a moment. Who the fuck is driving, don’t they know he’s dying back here? Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t really matter. His eyes slip closed once more, relaxing into the seat below him, head cradled in Dick’s lap as they approach Leslie’s clinic. It doesn’t matter, he isn’t alone this time.


End file.
